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Like Father, Like Son
I've been a pyromaniac since I was a kid. I've always been fascinated by fire. How it works, how it's created, why it produces heat. Winter was always my favorite season because my father and I would start a fire in the fireplace. He'd let me take a piece of newspaper and burn it with his lighter. He was a great dad, until he started drinking. Dad was very dangerous when drunk. He started abusing my mother, a precious, innocent woman. She'd have six to ten new bruises every time I saw her. I was fed up with it. A few days before my dad's birthday, after everyone went to bed, I went to their room, gently picked up my mom, carried her to my room and laid her down on my bed without waking her, went back into their room, and set the bed on fire. My father became a part of this bright madness, screaming in pain and terror. I had the biggest fucking grin on my face. My mom came in and screamed, then tried to put the fire out, but once the flames had gone, it was already too late. He was nothing but ashes, and I couldn't have been happier. Mom turned to me and asked what had happened, and I only had one thing to say: "Don't worry, he can't hurt you anymore." She didn't do anything. She just cleaned up the mess, kissed my forehead, and bid me adieu. Fourteen years later, I'm twenty-eight years old, married, and I have a beautiful six-year-old son. My pyro habits haven't ceased. Though, I haven't burned a body in a while, so that's a plus. It's late Saturday night and I'm playing with some old magazines and a lighter in the living room, my wife sitting on the couch with my son in her lap. He's been watching me for a while. He must be interested in the light it gives off. He is six, after all. Anyway, the wife decides it's time for bed, so we all go upstairs and lie down. I hear a thud from downstairs. I look at the clock. 2:37 A.M. I head downstairs and see a glowing light coming from the living room. I go in and see my son, my beautiful son, on fire, screaming while lying on the floor. I yell for my wife, but she doesn't come. My son's skin is bubbling, sizzling, boiling. I run to the kitchen and fill a large bowl with water, but I know it's already too late. I pour the water on him, but he's already dead. I suddenly hear a loud grunt and I jump, finding myself in my bed, in my room, my son in front of me, growling like a bear; my usual alarm clock. It was all just a dream. I hug my son tightly, thanking the Lord it was all only a dream, when he looks at me and says, "Mommy!" So I turn over to look at my wife, and all I see is ash, burned fabric, and a charred skeleton. The remains of my loving wife. "I don't like Mommy." Category:Mental Illness